


On the Use of Metaphors in a Downpour

by NeverKnightfire



Category: Hazbin Hotel
Genre: Feelings, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, RadioHusk, Too Many Metaphors, blame discord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverKnightfire/pseuds/NeverKnightfire
Summary: On a lonely roof, under a rare deluge of rain, a dance without any steps is happening.
Relationships: Alastor/Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 124





	On the Use of Metaphors in a Downpour

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a trade event on Discord. See the artwork that inspired it on Tawarithe’s Twitter.

Husk's voice was a low growl, barely audible over the steady, dull roar of white noise that was the rain. 

"Asshole." 

Alastor pretended not to hear, sprawled languidly on the edge of the roof beside the brooding cat demon. 

It didn't rain often in Hell, certainly not in what loosely passed for the summer months of eternal damnation. More typical was the heat, a dryness that crept into the core of your very being, withering your soul's physical form from the inside out. This rare downpour was something to be enjoyed. Cherished, even. 

The humidity, a thick, sturdy blanket of warm moisture that clung to one's breaths and squeezed the lungs, it was one of the few things in the underworld that reminded Alastor of days long before. Of the evening haze on the bayou, of the calls of the herons and the distant splash of an unseen gator under the wavering glimmers of lazy fireflies. Things he would never behold again and with every decade regarded more and more as a long-ago dream whose mundane details were fading to pinpoints of half-recalled impressions. 

This creeping fog of humidity, this haze of dampness, it was reminiscent of so many of the things dear to the faint, languishing petals of humanity that belonged to the man who’d died so many decades before. 

The fact that it came with such delightfully grumpy entertainment as a bonus made the event a treasure far too precious to be squandered. 

"Yer givin' me a fuckin' cramp, you grinny dipshit," Husk grumbled, and Alastor let his left eye slide open to regard his companion with amusement. Husk's right wing was outstretched over the reclining radio demon, creating a makeshift shelter from the downpour. A shield of sorts, readily extended over him, seemingly without thought given to the offering. 

Husker was good like that, Alastor reflected. In battle, at the bar, or on a rooftop under the pounding precipitation, good old Husker was always there with a backup plan, a ready shield and a thorny comment. 

A sublime combination, in the crimson demon's opinion. Distinct, crave-worthy, and unique, this was a cocktail worthy of savoring slowly. A whiskey blended from years of experiences. Decant. Let the liquid breathe, allow the flavors to mingle. Appreciate each one as it harmonizes into the whole. Notes in a swinging, brassy band of delight. Best served chilled, just slightly below room temperature. With that in mind, Alastor prepared to give the mix a little stir. 

"I never asked for an awning, my dear," Alastor replied airily, sitting up to stretch his arms overhead. If he tried, his fingertips could just brush the underside of that feathery canopy. No, not now, the time was not yet right. Curling his fingers inward towards his palms, he turned his head and made a pretense of cracking his neck. A carefully constructed excuse for averting his eyes and not meeting Husker's own. 

If he met the cat demon's gaze, the other would see his bluff, Alastor was certain. Those keen eyes; an eclipse of glowing molten gold in a hazy night's sky, they saw tells that most demons were unaware that they had. They were sharper than any knife Alastor had ever held in his hands. They were too dangerous to meet, unprepared. 

"Feh," Husk's scoff was a harsh bark against the thudding raindrops. "You never ask for what you need. You just expect it. Like you're entitled to whatever ya want, or somethin' like that." The gleam of gold faded away in the periphery of Alastor's vision, and he found himself turning his head to follow the receding aurora of the cat demon's gaze. From the corner of his eye, he studied his companion. 

The arch of those large, feathery brows as they bobbed with an eyeroll and a muttered grumble. The motion of Husker's large hand as it swept outward, flicking the ash from the end of the cigar held between sharpened digits. The way the fragrant tobacco smoke curled, almost intimately around those deceptively delicate-looking appendages. 

Delicate? That was a snapper, a real laugh! Those finger-blades could tear an unwary demon's innards to streamers or carve lace filigree into fruit peel for cocktail garnishes, depending on the owner's mercurial mood. 

Husker was a work of art, unassuming of his enticing qualities and all the more alluring for it. 

"Hm," the Radio Demon heard himself hum appreciatively. A long, tufted ear twitched in his direction, a warning of scrutiny to come. Alastor turned just enough so that when he let himself backwards, he came to rest against his companion's side, his head supported by the rounded press of Husker's ribcage. The faint whuff of surprised air that Husk let escape was the perfect emphasis to the moment. 

"What the fuck's that noise supposed to mean?" The question could have been offended and angry, if Husker had put just a bit more of an edge to it. A little more sharpness could have made the words venomous, bitter and distasteful. A fine old wine, gone to vinegar due to lack of care by an inexperienced cellarer. Instead, the words were guarded. Cautious, with a slight hint of warning. Husker did so despise being made into a buffoon, Alastor reflected with a quirk of his lips. 

"I was just marveling at your incredible ability to know what I need, Husker." 

The motion of the ribcage behind Alastor's head gave the barest hitch as it stilled. For a moment, there was no movement but the steady patter of raindrops and the lazily wafting tobacco smoke. 

"It's quite convenient, this new clairvoyance of yours," Alastor continued, craning his head back just enough to meet the daggers being stared into his face. His ears fell back in exaggerated deference to the glower directed at his person. He let his grin widen a little at the scrutiny being leveled towards him. "Tell me, what else do I need right now?" 

Silence stretched between the two of them like the last threads of a Louisiana sunset reaching into the darkening sky. Husker’s eyes wavered, his golden gaze uncertain for a moment as Alastor smirked up at him. There was a bounce of movement as they went from meeting Alastor’s own gaze down to his grinning mouth and back again. 

“Ya need yer ass kicked,” Husk abruptly stated, taking a long draw from his cigar and blowing the smoke directly into Alastor’s face. “But shit, that ain’t nothing new,” he muttered as he turned away. The old gambler was guarding his hand again, Alastor thought to himself. How fitting! How appropriate! 

Perfectly amused, the Radio Demon let out a hearty guffaw, not at all put off by the smell of rich tobacco and lingering smoke. “Is that why you tarry then, darling? Waiting here in the deluge, one side soaking through and drowning? Because I need my ass kicked?” Husker’s side gave a little heave, but the cat demon said nothing. 

Alastor straightened, rolling his shoulder aside to lean his head against his companion. “You must have a reason, my dear. I know you well enough, I’d say, to maintain that you never do anything without a reason. And yet here you sit, getting drenched on one side as you keep me dry.” 

Husker gave but the smallest of shifts, bones rustling against each other as he attempted to accommodate the pressure exerted by Alastor’s weight against him. “Can’t a guy smoke in peace?” he complained, sucking another lungful of spicy, herbal fumes into his lungs and letting the breath go with a soft hiss of resignation. “An’ maybe I like the rain, ever think of that, wiseass?” 

This time Alastor did laugh, full and uproarious, because the notion was too absurd to give a second thought to. “Oh, pull the other, Husker! Ha! Like the rain, indeed. You’re a soul of the desert. Dry heat and clear, open skies. Arid winds and stillness. There is nothing in you that craves the storm’s surge and the gushing tears of Heaven.” He gestured grandly at the falling water around them, his showman’s timing ensuring that a flash of lightning and a distant boom of thunder accompanied the wave of his hand. 

“Maybe there is,” Husk muttered, his voice nearly lost to the rolling gurgle of water draining from the roof and the rumbling thrum of the passing storm. Alastor paused, turning his head just slightly to regard his companion. The tilt of his head shifted, three quarter profile instead of a stark silhouette against the flashing light jumping from cloud to cloud around them. From his new vantage point he could clearly see the long, searching gaze that Husker was giving him before the cat demon returned his attention to his cigar. 

Something akin to hunger, but not gnashing with ravenous teeth. Something drowning on dry land, deluged in a desert. Something that reached down through the labyrinth of Alastor’s own twisted soul, set its hooks in the gaping jaws of his disbelief, and _yanked._

“Oh,” Alastor breathed. He could feel the moment his breath left his lungs and took his ignorance with it. “I see. Then perhaps if there is.” he hesitated, feeling the brittle fibers of ‘what if’ creaking beneath his words. A thin, rickety bridge of straw that passed over an unknown, perilous gorge. “Then... if there is, perhaps you... should stay put.” 

“Hn,” Husker’s answering grunt wasn’t a word, not even quite a syllable as he let the wing stretched over Alastor’s head droop. Obliged to move closer, Alastor reached out and carded his fingers through the dampened fur on Husk’s left shoulder. “Yer sleeve’s gonna get wet,” Husk drawled, pulling his right wing tighter against his side and Alastor along with it. 

“Always trying to shield me,” Alastor chuckled, pulling his shadow magic from the ether to create a large, dark umbrella large enough for two out of the hissing, papery shades under his control. “Even when I don’t need it.” 

“That’s when ya need it most,” Husker opined, fluffing his feathers with an indignant huff. He crossed his arms with a good-natured complaint. “Someone’s gotta watch yer back. An’ nobody else is dumb enough ta take the job.” 

“Dumb? Never. Qualified? Always, and the only one who ever has been,” Alastor retorted, this time meeting the hesitant gleam of Husk’s gaze with his own. Guttering candles and low suns on the horizon and the dying sputters of stars tumbling into the atmosphere to burn as one of the pair finally fell into the other’s gravity.


End file.
